He can’t finish that sentence either. Because we both know the answer.
Everything. He’s asking foreverything.
Our gaze locks.
I see both sides of him laid bare. The obsession that makes him dangerous and the vulnerability that makes him human. The monster who breaks bones without hesitation and the man who apologizes for losing control. The captor who took my freedom and the protector who would kill for me.
Both truths. Side by side.
Both terrifying.
Not because I can’t bear them. But because I don’t know which one my own responses are drawn to anymore. I should be calculating. Building strategies. Planning.
“I want to go inside.” My voice shakes. Just enough to betray how deep this has affected me.
He nods.
Doesn’t offer his hand. Seems to know I can’t take it right now. Not without it meaning too much.
That restraint is another small kindness. Another crack in my defenses.
We walk back to the fortress side by side. Not captor ahead, hostage behind. Level. Equal.
Both bleeding in different ways. Him from split knuckles and cracked control. Me from realizing I want to be the reason he loses it again.
I’m so, so fucked.
19
VIOLET
The green dress is draped over a chair when I wake. Blood-spotted silk catching the morning light, dark stains blooming on emerald where the guard’s blood sprayed last night. Evidence of what happened. What I watched. What Ifeltwhile watching.
I should be horrified.
Instead my mind replays the crack of bone. The absolute certainty in Elio’s voice.She is mine.The efficient brutality of his hands, beautiful in their violence. Heat pools low in my belly.
Jesus Christ, Murphy. Get it together.
I push myself upright, rubbing sleep from my eyes, and that’s when something new catches my attention.
A full-length mirror. Floor to ceiling, gilt frame, positioned against the wall where nothing stood yesterday.
It wasn’t there before.
He had it brought in overnight while I slept. Another gift. Another cage. Another way of sayingI’m watching, always watching, and I want you to watch yourself too.
I slide out of bed and approach it slowly. The black silk nightgown whispers against my thighs. In the reflection I look like a stranger. Hair mussed, the hickey on my neck fadingto yellow-green at the edges, eyes too bright for someone who should be traumatized.
My brain wakes up enough to realize that a mirror equals glass equals weapon. I could break it. Use a shard. Sharp enough to cut, to stab, to kill. Heavy enough that a decent piece could do real damage. This is better than the caliper he took. Better than anything I’ve found since I woke up in this place.
My hand reaches toward the glass, fingers hovering inches from the surface. Only cool air between my skin and the reflection. One good strike to the corner and I’d have a dozen options for violence.
I drop my hand, unable to follow through.
Not because I’m afraid or I’ve given up. But because some part of me wants to see where this goes more than I want a weapon I probably won’t use anyway.
Who is this woman?
